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One, however, took place on the right lower ribs of the hero,
Whereon he sparred for a hit, which he planted with ease and affection,
Right on the brain-box of Neat, who, though not given to praying,
Sunk on his marrow-bones straight, in a fashion godly and pious.

Instantly rose a shout, a riff-raff-ruffianly roaring,
Hallabulloo immense, a most voluminous volley;

Cockneyland crowed like a cock, and the hills gave an echo politely.

Round Eighth and Last.

Neat came up once more, but the fight was over; again he
Hit with the dexter arm, and felt that he now was defeated.
Spring in a moment put in a ramstam belly-go fister-

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Down to the ground went Neat, and with him down went the battle.
"It is no use," said Bill;
Therefore I must give in."

my arm, do you see me, is injured—
He spoke-and, mournfully placing

On the sore part his hand, he shewed the fracture to Tom Spring.
Seven-and-thirty minutes it lasted-ten of them wasted
In the first round alone. The glorious news came to London
Somewhere about eight o'clock; but still incredulous people
Held the report as false; and, even approaching to midnight,
Bets were laid on Neat so much was Spring undervalued.

Woe was in Bristol town-woe, woe on the Severn and Avon;
Clifton, the seat of the gay, looked dull and awfully gloomy;
Grief was in Bath the polite; a mournful air of dejection
Reigned o'er the tables of whist; and mugs, as fair as the morning,
Looked like the ten of spades, or the face of my Lord Grim-Grizzle.*
Round the old Redcliff church was held an aggregate meeting,
+Stormy and sad by fits-where some, with sceptical speeches,
Doubted the fact of the case-or, cunningly crooking the fingers,
Made a X in the open air, affronting the moon-beams;

Others but shook the head, and jingled the coin in their pockets,

Cheering themselves with the much-loved sound of the gold for the last time. But in the shambles of Bristol, among the butcherly people,

There was the blackness of sorrow; loud oaths, or sorrowful moaning,

Rung in the seat of slaughter-but slaughter now was suspended;

Mute was the marrow-bone now, the ancient music of Britain ;
Cleaver, and bloody axe, steel, hand-saw, chopping-block, hatchet,
Lay in a grim repose; and the hungry people of Bristol
Could not the following day get a single joint for their dinner.

But when the cross was suggested, the whole black body of butchers
Raged, like a troubled sea, with a wild and mutinous uproar.

Such was the state of the West. Meanwhile Spring travelled to London, There to be hailed as the Champion bold of merry Old England.

Neat he saw in bed-his arm was fastened with splinters

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And in the heel of his fist Tom nobly inserted some shiners.

Bill was sulky, however; and still he lustily vaunted,

That, if his arm had not broke, he must have been hailed as the ChampionThat can be known, however, to the Fates and Jupiter only.

Where are the chaffers now, who swore that Spring was no hitter? That he could scarce make a dint in a pound or a half-pound of butter ?— Melted all fast away, like the butter of which they were speaking. Long live the Champion Spring! and may his glorious annals Shine in the pages of Egan as bright as the record of Tom Cribb! One man more must be fought, however ;-Arise to the combat, Rise for the Champion's crown, arise, I say, Joshua Hudson! That will be the fight-meanwhile Spring lords the ascendant; Therefore huzza for Spring-and I make my bow to the public. ["To-morrow for fresh fights and postures new."-MILTON.

M. OD.

It is an undoubted historical fact, that Neat's brotherhood, the butchers of Bristol, betted particularly thick upon him. He must be a rigid moralist, indeed, who would condemn this. "Butcherus sum, butcheriani nihil a me alienum puto," will hold as truly, ay, and more truly, than the original passage of the dramatist, which asserted, that all human cares were participated in by all human beings. The butchers, consequently, were severe sufferers; one poor flesher bled to the tune of six hundred pounds-an amiable man, with an interesting wife and six small children. The green visage of the Sheriff was seen in the market; and a vast quantity of the implements by which the most powerful of cattle fell, fell themselves in turn under the fatal hammer of the auctioneer. It is not wonderful, under such circumstances, that the butchers should shew much sore flesh. Among them it is a general belief that Neat did cross it; and accordingly he is not so popular a preacher as the Reverend Neddy Irving, by several degrees. Besides, national pride is against the belief, that a Herefordshire man, bred in London, should subdue the flower of Bristol, the wonder of the western land. Neat, however, is indignant at the idea, and lays the whole circumference of the blame upon his broken radius. We happened to be bye in Bristol, when a young gentleman, six feet two high, of a mild countenance, slightly pitted with the small-pox, and considerably blown up with brandy, was coming off a Southampton coach, in company with his father, a very decent-looking seventeen-stone old body. The father and son were conversing affably about the late event, which has brought more ruin on the western empire than any disaster since the days of Honorius; and the son, just as he stepped down, remarked gently, "ByNeat sold the fight." A man of a certain appearance, with his right arm in a sling, was standing by, and asked, with more energy than politesse," Who the blazes dost thee speak of ?"-"Why," said the youth, "Neat, who sold the fight." On which the man of the arm, putting forth his sinister bunch of fives, saluted the youngster under the ear with a blow that projected him about seven feet six inches across the street, deposited him in a place of safety in the sink, and sent the blood gushing forth, with the most fluent liberality, from mouth, nose, and ears. "Now," said the striker, "I'm Neat; what dost thee say to that?"-" Nothing at all," replied the strikee, "only that I am satisfied."

But forty thousand knock-down blows would not satisfy the body-politic of the butchers. We were ourself in company with a very interesting and ingenious person of that tribe, with whom we had much conversation. He is a truly fine and amiable butcher, who had lost a quantity of cash on the fight. He vented his indignation sadly against Bill Neat, and his wrath would not be appeased. He ventured to suggest, that Bill's arm being broken, quite did up all his chance; and hinted, that, in fact, he had no chance even without the smash of his bone. In truth, we may as well at once tell the reader, that we look upon Spring as the better man-tardy to be sure, something like a

British reviewer, but still of guard impenetrable, great coolness, great courage, and great science. Neat is a man more of genius than cultivation-in ruffianing superb, in skill defective. Now, as we know that they are men of equal weight, or that the difference, if any, is for Spring, he being 3 pounds heavier, and that he has the advantage of being a nicer height, viz. 5 feet 11 inches, while Neat is 6 feet inch, we say that no ruffianosity can ever beat science under such circumstances. This we stated with our utmost eloquence to our friend the butcher, but in vain. He had a preconceived theory that Neat could beat, and would not, which no facts could conquer. Undoubtedly, however, our friend, the feller of oxen, is a man of genius ; for he wrote a song in the height of his indignation, of which he kindly gave us a copy, on condition that we should keep it a secret. We therefore commit it in confidence to our readers :

Lament of a big Bristol Butcher.

1.

I was as raw as butcher's meat,
I was as green as cabbage,
When I sported blunt on Billy Neat,
The ugly-looking savage.

2.

I was as dull as Bristol stone,
And as the Severn muddy,

Or I should have had the humbug known,
Of that big bruiser bloody.

3.

I was as dull as a chopping-block,
As stupid as a jack-ass,

Or I'd not have laid on such a cock
One whiff of my tobaccoes.

4.

For budding flower, or leafing tree,
I now don't care a splinter;
For Spring is a colder thought to me
Than the bitterest day of Winter.

5.

Woe, woe unto the market-place!
Woe, woe among the cleavers!

For sad is every greasy face
Among Bill Neat's believers.

6.

I'm rooked of notes both small and great,

I'm rooked of every sovereign;

So bloody curses on Bill Neat,
Whatever king may govern!

We do not hesitate to say, that the author of these verses is a poet, and are not without a hope, that the same age, which saw raised from humble degree to the heights, or at least declivities, of Parnassus, such souls as those of our own, our dear friend Hogg the Shepherd of Ettrick, or, to leave him out of the question, of Clare the hedger, Cunningham the mason, Blomfield the herd, Keates the apothecary, and Mrs Yearsley the milkwoman, will also have the happiness of witnessing the rise and progress of the author of this Lament, Humphry Huggins, the butcher.

Quod Testor,

M. OD.

ON THE GORMANDIZING SCHOOL OF ELOQUENCE.

No. I.

MR D. ABERCROMBY.

AN empty head and an empty stomach, when found united, as they of ten are, in one and the same individual, incapacitate their owner for any great mental or corporeal exertion. But take your man, and cram him with turtle soup, roast-beef, and cranberry-tarts, and however Nature may abhor the vacuum in his unfurnished upper story, she is so pleased with the repletion of his victualling-office, that she makes the belly perform the work of the brain, and shews what is in a man after three finished and regular courses of education. Look along a large public dinner, eaten either in the cause of Freedom or the Fine Arts, and you will observe how ideas seem to be rising up from the very pits of their stomachs, into the countenances of the friends of the human race. In all probability, every gentleman present has a ninny at either elbow; but that is of no earthly consequence; the dinner does its duty; the cook makes every cub a Canning; and the speaker on spare diet, what is he when brought into rivalry with some glutton of the Gormandizing School, inspired by a peck of green peas, and ballasted with beef 8s. per stone, sinking offals?

We intend giving a monthly report of such dinners; and without farther preamble, begin with that of the Scottish Club, Liverpool, devoured upon the 18th of June, A. D. 1823. The Members of the Club, (so we are informed by our friend Mr Merrit's excellent paper, the Advertiser,) met in the Castle Inn, Lord-Street, many of them in "splendid Highland dress

es.

"The sonsy face of Scotland's favourite dish, the haggis, graced the festive board," &c. Of this most hi deous and indecent dish, Burns, who did not stick at trifles, said, "Thy hurdies like twa distant hills;" and when people sit down to dine with their own hurdies bare, nothing better can be expected from them, than to place a pair upon the table, and to aver that they grace the festive board." But we solemnly protest against the doctrine that holds haggis to be the national and characteristic diet of Scotland. What may have

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been the case long ago, that is to say, mid-way between the Flood and the Union of the two kingdoms, we cannot tell, never having been addicted to archaiological researches. But this we will say, that no Highlander ever ate a haggis in a kilt upon a hill of heather, and that if such a thing were to be found lying in a glen, no untravelled Highlander would be able to swear conscientiously upon the Bible, whether it belonged to the vegetable kingdom, was a pair of bellows, or a newly-imported bag-pipe. In all likelihood he would, with that curiosity natural to all savages, stick his dirk into its hurdies; and being generally in a state of hunger, he would begin with tasting, and finish with devouring the contents thereof. But still he would not believe it to be indigenous; nor, in after life, during his sojourn in Liverpool, or any other remote town, would he devoutly bow down to it, and worship it as the idol of one of his country's gods. Into the history of the haggis, we have not time this month to inquire, nor do we know at present whether it originally was the dish of a free people or a nation of slaves. But, however like its "hurdies" may be to "distant hills," the Highlanders have had no opportunity in their own country of making the comparison; and once more we enter our protest against this attempt to attribute a Celtic origin to the " great chieftain of the pudding race," whose name and lineage, smell and sound, are exceedingly Gothic.

However, be the history of the haggis what it may, there can be no doubt that Mr D. Abercromby must have lubricated the coats of his stomach with it most assiduously, before he could discharge the following oration. "The Bulwark of Liberty, and the Foe of Despotism, a Free Press," having been drunk, the Gormandizer, No. I., arose, and thus vivavoced the Chair:

"MR CHAIRMAN,

"Having been connected with the press from my earliest years, and emboldened by the toast which you have just now drunk, I am induced to obtrude myself upon your

attention for a few moments; not, indeed,

for the purpose of shewing the astonishing effects which have been produced upon the moral, the religious, and the political world, by that most powerful engine, the press; nor to point out the benefits which mankind have derived from the use of it, or the evils of which it has been productive, (all of which would be quite foreign to the occasion of our present meeting) but to advert very briefly to the objects which the members of the Scottish Club had in view at its establishment.-Before doing so, however, permit me to mention, en passant, that this day, on which we cele brate, for the first time, the establishment of the Scottish Club in this town, is the

anniversary of an event which will ever be memorable in the annals of this country, a period on which history will long dwell with delight, and the anniversary of which will furnish to ages yet unborn the theme of many a noble story. Need I state, that I allude to the glorious battle of Waterloo ? That event is of so very recent date, and the particulars are so very familiar to all of you, that I should unnecessarily occupy your time by entering into any detail of the gallant feats performed by the heroes of Britain on that glorious day. Suffice it to say, that never on any former field of glory, distinguished as they have been for deeds of arms, did the bravery of the sons of St George shine forth with greater lustre ; never did the lads of Erin display more of their native heroism, than they that day shewed in supporting the reputation of their General, himself the child of their 'own dear isle of the ocean;' and never were more noble deeds of daring performed by any than were that day displayed by our gallant countrymen, the bold and hardy sons of the North

Lads who cry onward, but never cry parley,Bold Scottish lads, with their bannocks of barley.""

What a glorious exordium !—and how redolent of haggis and heather, duckling and sage stuffing. Why did the godlike man decline shewing the astonishing effects which have been produced upon the moral, political, and religious world, by that most powerful engine, the Press? Why should he have thought it foreign to the purpose of the meeting, not a whit more surely than the battle of Waterloo? Not a soul ate haggis that day, who had anything to do with the great battle, and they might just as appropriately have swallowed haggis and strutted in kilts upon the 1st of April, as on the 18th of June. But we observe, that no sooner does a Highlander put on a kilt, than he begins with scratching him

self into a belief that he dethroned Napoleon. Nothing will satisfy him but to celebrate the anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, where, however great the itch of fighting, there was the few hundred Highlanders that less butter than brimstone, and where were not killed at Quatre Bras, were despatched like so many haggises, and

left with their hurdies to fatten the soil of the ungrateful Netherlands. What better is all this vapouring about a day of blood, than the imitative cock-a-doodle-dooing of schoolboys, who have chanced to see two gamecocks slaying each other, and who keep flapping their arms as if they were themselves the combatants, and all so many bloody-heeled Ginger-Piles ?

But Mr D. Abercromby now leaves the ensanguined field of Waterloo, and tells the Scottish Club why they are all met together, which, we presume, but for his well-timed information, would have remained a secret even from themselves.

"The objects for which the Scottish Club was instituted, are such as to commend themselves to the judgment of every man acquainted with them, and to do equal credit to the head and the heart of him who proposed its establishment, and to you who have matured and brought it to its present high state of respectability and usefulness. These objects, I believe, I will be correct in saying, are three in number, viz.—First, and chiefly, the support of the infirm, the sick, and the aged amongst you. Secondly, The promotion of that amor patriæ which is inherent in every man, but which is peculiarly characteristic of Scotchmen. And, lastly, To preserve from extinction, amidst the ever-varying and fantastical fashions of every-day invention, the peculiar and national dress of Scotland. Let me trespass upon your patience for a few moments, whilst I briefly make a few hastilyconcocted observations on each of these in their order."

Here the excellence of his remarks proves the fulness of his stomach. Having, in his skilful exordium, declined any historical exposition of the power of the Press over the destinies of man, which he felt inwardly would have been a needless condiment to that highly-savoured dish, a haggis-with similar judgment, he remarks, "It would be a waste of time, an insult to your good sense, to shew, by any lengthened remarks, the necessity of making provision for infirmity, sickness, and old age." He then slides on, with an alacrity only possible in a

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